


and it won't help you (to calm the swelling tide)

by shineyma



Series: a lot like forever [3]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, F/M, Gen, Phone Calls & Telephones, Ward isn't Hydra, specialists expressing their emotions through violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 07:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four phone calls that happened during <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2364431">no matter where we are (i will keep you in my heart)</a> and one that happened after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and it won't help you (to calm the swelling tide)

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, I'm sure no one will be surprised to hear that I owe review responses. I am trash and I am very sorry.
> 
> Second, this is in response to a prompt from anonymous, which I received approximately two months ago. Anon wanted an excerpt of Trip calling Grant during _no matter where we are_ , and it kind of...grew from there. Who knows if that particular anon is even still around, but if s/he is, thanks for the prompt!
> 
> Third, title comes from "Human" by Gabrielle Aplin. Great song.
> 
> I think that's it! Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“Leave a message.”

“Good morning, Grant! It’s ten o’clock here on the Bus, and for once, local time isn’t _terribly_ far off. We’re on our way to Pennsylvania for a case. We don’t have much detail yet, I’m afraid, just that there has been a very mysterious death and that Fitz and I will most likely be doing the bulk of the work on this one.

“Speaking of Fitz, you may have noticed that I’m ringing you rather later than usual. Sadly, it is _not_ because I had a lie-in. Instead, I’ve had a _very_ frustrating morning. You see, it’s been two weeks now since Skye’s…indiscretion, and this morning, Fitz decided to cheer her up. Which would be admirable, if not for the fact that, for some _entirely unfathomable_ reason, he thought the best way to do so was by telling her about the betting pool regarding our marriage.”

A frustrated sigh.

“Skye, of course, thinks it’s hilarious. Especially since telling her about the betting pool required telling her exactly _why_ everyone found our marriage so shocking. I’m afraid Fitz’s description of your personality was fairly unflattering, darling, but don’t worry—I very gallantly defended your honor.

“Of course, it only got worse when Trip got involved. _He_ started telling stories about what happened when word first spread about our marriage, including an account of Agent Wright fainting in the Hub. I tried to tell Skye that Wright is a colossal berk and shouldn’t be trusted as a judge of _anything_ , but for some reason, that only made her laugh harder.”

Another sigh.

“Then, it got _even worse_ , as apparently Coulson thought the conversation looked fun, and decided to join it by telling Skye about Barton’s bet. Except he didn’t have the courtesy to call him Barton—oh, no. No, he called him _Hawkeye_. So now Skye is all a-flutter that not only does an Avenger know at least one of us well enough to bet on us, he only thought we would last three hours. I tried to explain that it’s simply his sense of humor, but I’m afraid that only made it worse, as it implied an even higher level of familiarity with him.

“All in all, it has been an _extremely_ frustrating morning. And, just so you know, Agent May is now my favorite member of this team. Additionally, if Trip and Fitz don’t stop talking about this soon I shall be forced to cross them both off. I fear you’re about to be an only child, darling. As am I, for that matter.

“Ah, it appears we’re about to land. Duty calls! Don’t be concerned if I’m late again tomorrow; there’s no telling how long this case will take. In the meantime, do take care of my husband, won’t you? I’d prefer to get him back in one piece. I love you. Be safe!”

\---

Grant is one month into a four-month undercover assignment, and it’s really starting to wear on him. He knows that it’s completely necessary; this particular ring of weapons dealers has been causing destruction on a massive scale—not just through the weapons they provide to various terrorist and rebel organizations, but also through in-fighting—and they need to be brought down. But in order to bring them down, he needs to gain their trust, and that means he has to pretend to be like them.

He’s been doing this kind of work for a decade, now. He’s good at it—one of the best. It comes easily to him. But it never sits well. The kinds of things he has to say and, worse, _do_ in order to maintain his cover weigh on him.

His current cover, Anton Izmaylov, is a particularly nasty piece of work. He’s just as bad, if not worse, than the men that Grant is here to bring down, and every second Grant spends pretending to be him brings him that much closer to saying ‘fuck the mission’ and just crossing everyone off so he can go home.

He’s not on that edge tonight, though. At the moment, all they’re doing is having dinner at the restaurant in the hotel where he’s been staying. The company is horrible, obviously, but the food is good and the only unpleasant thing Anton does at dinner is leer at the waitresses (something Grant hates to do, but it’s miles away from the worst thing he’s done today, so he can live with it).

They’re halfway through the second course and deep in discussion about the most recent episode of _Kukhnya_ (which is an inexplicably popular TV show that Grant despises but Anton loves—as do the men he’s meeting with), when the maître’d interrupts.

“My apologies, sir,” he says to Grant. “But a message was left for you with the concierge.”

He keeps his face carefully neutral as he accepts the slip of paper from the maître’d. There aren’t many people who know where he is right now, and there are even fewer who would leave him a message. This can’t be good.

He dismisses the man (without thanks) and unfolds the message. Then he stops breathing.

The message is simple, only six words— _Vadim says the surgery went poorly_ —but to him it spells panic. The message is from Trip, and it’s a code that means, simply, _drop what you’re doing and call me right the fuck now_.

There’s only one thing—one _person_ —that could prompt Trip to send him such an urgent message in the middle of an undercover op.

He’s grateful for his training as he refolds the paper and slips it into his pocket. It’s the only thing that keeps his hands from shaking. It takes more effort to keep his face blank and his voice calm as he addresses his dining companions, but he manages it.

“An urgent message from my brother,” he says. “Please excuse me.”

He barely stops himself from sprinting out of the restaurant. Somehow, he restrains himself to a brisk walk until he reaches the stairwell (bypassing the elevator as far too slow). There, assured that no one is watching, he takes the stairs four at a time. He’s cursing himself the whole way for leaving his phone in his room. The leader of the men he was meeting with tonight is an eccentric one, with strong feelings about manners at the dinner table, and Grant decided earlier that the risk of upsetting the man by getting a call outweighed the risk of possibly missing an important message.

The irony is painful.

By the time he reaches his room, he’s verging on the edge of panic. He doesn’t bother to set it aside or force it down. He just snatches his phone off the hall table and dials Trip; the line is ringing before the door even finishes closing behind him.

He paces around the sitting room as he waits for Trip to answer, spiraling closer to panic with every passing second. He’s ready to break something (or some _one_ ) by the time Trip answers.

“Grant.”

His legs give out from under him, and he collapses onto the couch. He knows that tone.

“No,” he says. He barely recognizes his own voice.

“She’s not…” Trip breaks off, and Grant can hear him swallow. “She’s not dead. Not yet.”

“Yet?” he asks, latching on to hope. “So she might—”

“I don’t know,” Trip says helplessly. “There’s nothing we—it’s up to her, now.”

“What happened?” he asks. His heart is in his throat; he nearly chokes on the words.

“We got called in to investigate a suspicious death,” Trip says. “We thought it was a weapon, but—it’s a virus. Chitauri. Some firefighters picked up a helmet in New York.”

He closes his eyes. “Jemma?”

“We thought it was a weapon,” Trip repeats. He sounds wrecked. “We didn’t know it was a biohazard, not a first. Jemma thinks she was infected by the first body.”

“The first,” he echoes. He swallows. He has to ask. “How many?”

“Three.”

“Survivors?”

There’s a long silence. Trip swallows again.

“None,” Grant realizes. It takes him three tries to speak again; when he does, his voice breaks. “How long does she have?”

“Her best guess is two hours.”

The words strike him right in the throat, and for a moment his vision goes grey around the edges. Grief and anger war within him. Two hours. He can’t get wherever they are in two hours. He can barely make it out of the _city_ in two hours.

He wants to hit something. He wants to _break_ something. He wants to put his fist through the wall or the window, but there’s no way his legs will support him right now. He contents himself with grabbing the lamp off the end table and throwing it at the wall. It shatters loudly upon impact.

He doesn’t feel any better.

He spends a few seconds just breathing, trying to gain control of himself. But he’s all too aware, now, of the rapidly ticking clock—of the fact that every second he spends breathing is a second that brings Jemma closer to death.

He can’t do this. He can’t _face_ this.

He takes a deep breath and carefully, deliberately shuts his emotions down. He puts it all—rage and grief and panic and regret—aside. It’s the only way to survive.

“Where are you?” he asks evenly.

“We’re on our way to the Sandbox,” Trip says. “But…”

“But?”

“We’re four hours out,” he says. “And…”

“And Jemma only has two,” Grant finishes.

“Grant,” Trip says. “You know Jemma’s a genius. If anyone can figure this out—if anyone can find a cure for an alien virus in two hours—it’s her. She’ll…” He pauses. He won’t make a promise he can’t keep. Grant’s always liked that about him. “She might be fine.”

Comfort means nothing to him right now. “I’ll meet you at the Sandbox.”

“Grant—”

He hangs up the phone and then turns it off. He wants to be out of contact right now. If Jemma finds a cure, Trip can leave another message with the concierge. And if she doesn’t….

He’ll turn his phone back on in two hours.

He sits there for several long moments, staring at broken lamp across the room. Then, suddenly, he can’t sit still any longer. He surges to his feet and begins to pace again. His emotions, so carefully tucked away, are threatening to break through.

He rubs a hand across his chest, then presses his palm against the place where his ring would be if he were wearing it. He’s not, of course; Jemma has it. She has everything. She _is_ everything.

He wants to break something. He wants to go back in time and talk Jemma out of the fucking crazy idea to join a field team. He wants to be with her.

He wants her not to be dying.

There’s nothing he can do. Even if her team does somehow reach the Sandbox before her two hours are up, he’s eight hours away. He has no hope of reaching her in time.

He’s helpless. Useless. Impotent.

His anger rises up his throat and chokes him, and he turns and slams his fist into the nearest wall. Pain flares in his knuckles, but it barely distracts him for a second. Nothing can distract him right now. There’s nothing he can do.

His eyes fall on his phone, left sitting on the coffee table, and he looks away, swallowing down the grief that threatens to overwhelm him. He made her promise, when he gave in and stopped fighting her about her decision to join a field team (why did he stop fighting? He should have kept at it, talked her out of it, _stopped her_ ), to call him every day, and she’s done so. She can’t call him directly, of course—they haven’t actually spoken in a month—but she’s been calling his personal phone and leaving a voicemail for him every single day, as promised.

Her cheery reports on her life and her team and her work with them are some of the only things that have gotten him through this horrible, horrible assignment. The idea that, when he calls his inbox tomorrow, there won’t be a message waiting for him…that there will never be another message waiting for him, ever again…

Suddenly, he can’t breathe.

He can’t reach her in time. And even if, by some miracle, he could—what would he do? He’s not a scientist. He can’t cure an alien virus—a goddamn alien virus; those Chitauri are the gifts that keep on fucking giving—hell, he can’t cure a _human_ virus. What would he be able to do, if he could reach her?

He could hold her. He could kiss her. He could say goodbye.

He _could_ , if he could reach her in time. But he can’t. He’s hours away, stuck undercover with some of the worst fucking scum the world has to—

Wait.

He can’t reach Jemma. He can’t cure her or kiss her or say goodbye. He can’t turn back time and stop her from joining her team.

But there is something he _can_ do. Something he’s been wanting to do for a while. Something that will soothe the horrible, clawing rage in his chest. Something that will make the world a better (though not brighter; nothing can be bright, not without her) place.

It won’t do a damn thing for Jemma. But it’ll make him feel better.

He picks his phone up off the table and tucks it into his pocket, then heads into the bedroom and makes a beeline to the gunsafe.

He can’t save his wife. So he’s going hunting.

\---

“SHIELD HQ, field division. Identify yourself.”

“Grant Ward. Oscar-Sierra-3-8-9.”

“One moment…Agent Ward. Has your cover been compromised?”

“No. I need a clean-up crew at my location.”

“Understood. What’s your status?”

“Unharmed. All of my targets are dead.”

“…I’m sorry. Could you repeat that? You’ve crossed off all of your primary targets?”

“No. I’ve crossed off _all_ of my targets.”

“Primary _and_ secondary?”

“And tertiary. The entire ring—suppliers, buyers, leaders. They’re all dead. And I kind of made a mess, so you’ll need to send a clean-up crew.”

“It’s on its way. Just, I need to clarify this. _All_ of the weapons dealers in the ring you infiltrated are dead?”

Click.

“Agent Ward? Could you cla—Agent Ward? Ward?”

\---

By the time Grant has showered and dressed, the two hours are up. He turns his phone on, checks his messages—none—and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

He doesn’t know what it means that Trip doesn’t call right away. If Jemma is—if the virus has run its course, Trip would let him know. But he’d also let him know if Jemma managed to cure herself.

Alive or not, Trip would call. The fact that he hasn’t…

He doesn’t know what it means.

Some of his targets put up a fight, so Grant is slightly dented. He barely even feels his injuries, and cares about them even less, but he finds himself treating them anyway—just for something to do. It doesn’t take long, and soon he’s back to pacing.

Why hasn’t Trip called?

After an hour, Grant gives in and calls _him_. There’s no answer, so he calls Jemma directly. It goes straight to voicemail.

He doesn’t know what _that_ means, either.

When his phone finally _does_ ring (nearly four hours after the initial call), he nearly breaks (another) lamp lunging for it.

“Yeah?”

“She’s alive,” Trip says, without preamble. “She and Fitz found a cure.”

Relief makes his knees weak, and he sinks onto the couch. For a moment he can’t speak—can barely breathe—through the emotions clogging his throat.

She’s alive. She’s not going to die. He’s not losing her—not today.

“Okay,” he manages. “Okay.” He breathes slowly, trying to get himself under control. “Is she—?”

He’s interrupted by the sound of shouting in the background on Trip’s side, and he frowns, distracted. That’s definitely Arabic, and while that’s actually a pretty common language at the Sandbox, the accent and dialect are distinctly Moroccan.

“Are you in Morocco?” he asks disbelievingly. The Moroccan field office is notoriously difficult to deal with; most agents avoid visiting it at all costs. He, personally, once went four hundred miles out of his way ( _with_ a bullet lodged in his left leg) to report to the Algerian office instead. “ _Why_?”

“Yeah,” Trip says slowly. “About that.”

Well, that’s not a good tone. “Trip?”

“Okay, you didn’t get the whole story earlier,” he says. “What with you doing your little robot act and hanging up on me, I didn’t have the chance to give you all the details.”

“Okay,” he says, frowning. The side commentary is typical Trip, but there’s a slightly hysterical tinge to the words that’s way out of character. Something has him rattled—more so than Jemma’s brush with death would account for. Trip is famous amongst their colleagues for his ability to keep a cool head during a crisis. “What don’t I know?”

Trip sighs. “The virus created a sort of electrical charge in the victims. It built slowly, over the course of nearly forty hours, until it eventually overloaded their systems and fried their brains.” He pauses. “That’s the simplified version, by the way. I don’t wanna confuse you or anything.”

There’s _definitely_ something up with Trip; the teasing is not only weak, but half-hearted.

“Trip…”

“But that’s not all,” Trip continues. “All three of the victims, when they died, let out electro-magnetic pulses that fried every electronic within three hundred meters.”

“Okay,” he says. There’s something niggling at him, something obvious that he’s missing, but he can’t quite grasp it—not when he’s so busy trying not to think of how Jemma must have felt, trying to save her own life while her body was being slowly flooded with electricity.

“An EMP that fried electronics,” Trip repeats slowly. “And we were on a plane flying over open water, with no land in sight.”

It clicks then, and Grant slumps back against the couch, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“She would’ve knocked you right out of the sky,” he concludes, and aches a little for how terrified she would have been of bringing her team with her when she died. Then he frowns. “But what does that have to do with you being in Morocco?”

“Here’s the thing,” Trip says. “There was some confusion over whether the anti-serum Jemma and Fitz designed actually _worked_. The mouse they tested it on got knocked out, but we all thought it was dead, so we assumed the anti-serum was a failure and she was out of time.”

Grant has an inkling of where this is going, and he really, sincerely hopes he’s wrong.

“So, to make a long story short, she asked for a minute alone with Fitz, knocked him out with a fire extinguisher, and jumped out of the plane. Without a parachute.”

“ _What_.”

“I caught her!” Trip rushes to assure him. “Soon as we got the alert that the cargo ramp was lowering, I realized what she was up to, and I went after her with the anti-serum. We spent an hour treading water then got picked up by the Moroccans and brought to the base to warm up. No harm done.”

Grant takes a deep breath. Then another. And another. He’s doing his best not to picture Jemma in free-fall, or—even worse—Jemma _after_ free-fall, and it’s not really working. The jumble of emotions he’s feeling at the moment is overwhelming and way beyond his ability to handle. He can’t feel this many things at once—no one can. It’s just not possible.

He has to pick one. He has to choose an emotion to focus on and embrace it, otherwise he’ll be forced to spend the rest of the night sitting on this couch trying not to cry, because his wife is crazy and brave and too fucking self-sacrificial by far.

He has to pick one thing to feel, and he goes with the easiest and most familiar: anger.

“You still heading for the Sandbox?” he asks, voice deliberately even.

“Yeah,” Trip says, and his wary tone is a mark of how well he knows Grant. “But we’ve gotta debrief first, so it’ll be a while.”

Grant stands and heads for his bedroom. “Understood.”

He knows how debriefs can drag on, and that they’re holding it at the Moroccan office means it’ll be that much worse. He can make it to the Sandbox in eight hours, and if he leaves soon enough, he might just beat them there.

“Ward,” Trip starts.

If Trip tries to comfort him—or calm him down—he’s definitely going to lose his grip, and that’s not something that he can afford right now. Not when it’ll be hours yet before he can see Jemma.

“I’ll meet you there,” he says, and hangs up.

\---

“Dude, you are never gonna believe what I just saw.”

“Seriously, that’s how you start a conversation? No _hi, Isaac, how ya doing, how’s the family_ —just, straight in? Where are your manners, dude?”

“You don’t even _have_ a family, man, what the fuck.”

“Hey, it’s been three weeks since the last time you called! Maybe I got married in the meantime, what do you know?”

“Like hell you’d keep _that_ to yourself. And I’m not the only one with a phone, here—if you wanna talk, you could always call _me_.”

“Whatever. My point is, manners, dude. They’re a thing.”

“ _Whatever_. _My_ point is you are not gonna believe what I just saw.”

Sigh. “Fine, fine. What did you just see?”

“Ward and Simmons. Here. At the Sandbox.”

“No way. I don’t believe it.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Would you shut up for two minutes and let me get to the good part?”

“Shutting up. But only because you asked so nicely.”

“The _point_ that I was about to get to is that they had a screaming fight, and we need to change our bets.”

“What? Why?”

“Because that guy is _terrifying_ , man, but she got right up in his face. Never once backed down. No way a woman like that’d give in to blackmail.”

“Huh. Are you sure?”

“Positive. Khadija was on the other side of the fucking compound and she says she heard Simmons call Ward a pillock (whatever that is) like she was in the next room. Chick’s got guts.”

“Well then it’s probably not coercion, either, right? So what could it be?”

“Hell if I know, dude. Hell if I know.”


End file.
